Mierda. Mierda mierda mierda. The time warnings had been up for a few days now, and Jesus knew better. He even had them saved on his phone, because he was terrible at remembering important stuff. But he must’ve lost track of time while he was out- looking over the Cage, making sure the extended absence hadn’t led to deterioration or looting, plus swinging by his apartment to pick up some stuff- and when he checked his phone he realized with horror that it was almost 5pm.
So he’d wound up here, a cafe with badly boarded windows and a broken front door. Jesus didn’t realize that there’d been looting this bad, especially since he remembered coming here to eat just a few weeks ago. But right now he just needed four walls around him and hopefully he could find a safe space to shelter for the next few hours, since the mist was too thick for him to risk driving his bike in and he didn’t want to call one of the others out for a rescue. This was his fault anyway, for not paying more attention to the world around him.
He was only a few steps in when he heard movement, and one hand tightened on his bag while the other shifted to his back pocket where he kept a switchblade (less for self-defense than the fact that knives were surprisingly useful multi-purpose tools in certain situations).
“Someone there?” he called warily into the dark.
@danielxmickey
